Underlines

Sam wrote in the margins of his favorite books. He had no use for paper, college or wide-ruled. Instead he made his most important notes next to the words of the stories he loved.

2010 - Page 57, The Great Gatsby: Chris came over today. She looked beautiful and I told her so, but she laughed and said that I was just saying that. She didn’t think she was pretty, but I did. I always did. But she never believes me when I say it. I wish she would believe me.

He never wrote in the “table of contents” or “chapter listings” or any such thing like that. It was important to him that his words share the same page as the words of the authors. He liked to think they meant more, his words, if he jotted them around the paragraphs. He preferred to keep the endings of stories free of any writing. In his mind preserving them was key. His car was littered with books. Novels and short story anthologies and the like. Always fiction. Never anything more. He lived his life in the pages of those books. They were the dreamscape of his mind, a place to escape to when things in the real world became too difficult to comprehend.

Like the time with his parents, when the three of them: mother, father, and Sam, went to the county fair. His father drank too much that day and made a scene in front of the pretzel stand. He shouted at his mother and said things no kind man should ever say to a woman. Sam was ten. It was his birthday. His mother cried and on the way home Sam read Ender’s Game while his father lay passed out in the passenger seat and imagined a life in outer-space, a life amongst the stars.

When they got home that night Sam’s mother led him to bed, leaving his father to fend for himself in the driveway. They walked down the hall, Sam with his book firmly under his arm. He washed his face and changed his clothes and when his mother came back into the room he climbed into bed so she could tuck him in. “You are special,” she said to him, kissing his forehead. “I love you, sweetie. Sleep well, okay?” Sam nodded and his mother cocooned the blankets around Sam’s body and when she walked out the door she playfully shot at Sam with her imaginary ray gun. Sam played the part and the beam hit hard. She blew a kiss to him and turned out the light.

Sister

your mother speaks in truths. she tells you that it will be alright and to follow your heart and every other thing you would expect a mother to say. she gets it, you think, sitting at the table with an ice cream sandwich and a furious doubt that terrifies you to the bone. not a doubt that you’re doing the right thing, no, not in the slightest. that doubt, that terrible feeling is that your sister, the one that presumes to know everything about anything, including the interests and actions that would suit you the best, will not understand, not nearly as well as your mother, that she will overreact and begin the painful process of breaking you down, thought for thought, without mercy, until you finally tell her to shut it. you don’t know a goddamn thing, you’ll say, not a damn thing so shut the fuck up. you’ll cut into her with the precision of a surgeon and the wrath of a prize fighter, with words that will unravel themselves in her very heart and undo years upon years of sisterly compassion. you don’t understand, you’ll cry. you’ve never understood. and you’ll sob and you’ll tear and you’ll scream and say things like “love” and “future” and “he. he. HE.” because that’s what you feel, what you think she doesn’t “get”. and it’s happened so fast, almost too fast. that’s the thing she sees, what she comprehends, the whole picture. and maybe you don’t see that because the he. he. he. blinds you from the truth. so you tell her to get out. get out because the small sliver in your heart tears the thought that she could be on to something, something big, and you, which is your nature, you can’t stand to be the least but wrong. and that would be something else all together…

In Your Own Time

The passing of Martha Lawrence was no particular surprise to the townspeople. It was a well known fact that Ms. Lawrence had been battling, quite fiercely, a cancer that had plagued both lungs for some time though it wasn’t until the malady had spread to her bones, a crippling pain that, in the end, left her bed-ridden and unable to move, did she finally succumb. In her spryness of which she was roundly known for Martha could be seen, day after day, sitting at the porch of her humble, one-story home greeting people, raising her coffee to their direction with a smile and a wink. She was a good woman and well-liked. “Find a fallacy in this woman,” some would say, “and I will show you the doors of Atlantis.”

In the months leading up to her passing Martha Lawrence carried out few tasks, most of which could be described as simply “tying up loose ends”. However, one such errand the folks of the city took to recognizing was that which occurred in a town hall meeting on a cold night in December. Martha took to the podium, hobbled and with a cane in one hand, her daughter, Liddy, at her other arm. She unfolded a small sheet of paper and spoke into the microphone. Her voice was soft but the people would listen to what she had to say.

“I have been of this town all my life. I have seen people come and I have seen people go. I have watched your troubles and you have watched mine. Though we, as a town, may have had our share of missteps I will say that I have no greater a love for this place than anything else. You are a part of me and, I would hope, I am a part of you. I will miss this place but, surely, I know, you will miss me all the more.”

As she finished the last line, as the quiet laughs regarding her bit of humor died down, Martha Lawrence was led to the side of the stage and out through the side exit and back to her home. Fourteen days later she would leave this place though, if you were in the crowd of people that night watching as she addressed the townspeople, you would have guess she could live forever.

Her body was submitted to the Glen Evans Mortuary on Christmas morning. The next day there would be an open-viewing for people to come and, if they wished to, pay their respects to the woman. A peculiar thing happened that day, a thing that Martha would never come to know. As the day progressed and the sun rose and fell her casket would be filled with envelopes, letters of the townspeople, to be committed with Martha Lawrence to her final resting place.

Some letters would be of love and adoration for the woman, others would be of sadness - sadness to see her go, sadness for the feeling her absence from the town would be. Then there would be letters of questions, not of Martha Lawrence, but of matters of life, of longing, of what is and what is not. Friends and strangers alike would offer their words, whether they be queries or concerns, regrets or loathing; her casket, as the people of the town saw it, would serve as a vessel to whatever is to come – a means of hope for answers to the questions we share in our bones.

And This Is Where I Will Find You

Bind your hair with ribbon. Look this way in the mirror. Look that way. Count the lines on your face. Find that same number on your hands, in your eyes, off your words. Light candles in the night-time. Call when the power goes out. You are in the shower. It is dark. Search each and every place. Numbers on a telephone.

It is 12:30 in the afternoon and I am already late to meet Deb at the shop. I have 10 minutes to make it there, but I know there will be traffic, especially at this time of day, on this type of day. But I have to go, even if I don’t want to. I told her I would meet her. “We should talk,” she says, but I already know what that means. I don’t want to go.

Deb is pretty, long in the legs and slender to boot, like a mermaid at the shore. Like most things, it can be devastating. We were more than friends, once. Now, we struggle to be just friends. Or maybe it is me that struggles. I don’t know. I do, but I don’t know. Saying, “I don’t know,” is like freeing yourself from the truth of the matter when you don’t want to face the truth of the matter. Giving yourself a chance, that’s what it’s like. Giving yourself a chance when you know in your core that there probably isn’t one.

Driving down the 5 a song comes on that reminds me of a time in the North when Deb and I rambled down the hillside in search of a glass beach. It was cold and we had no real direction, just the road that lead down the coast and hopefully towards what we were searching for. We didn’t find the glass beach. Instead, we bought snacks and water and logs for a fire. Opening a bag of Chex-Mix, I said, “These are pepperoni’s and they are amazing.”

“Those are not pepperoni’s!”

“They’re not? What are they?!”

“I don’t know!” she said, laughing.

“Well they’re damn delicious! Pepperoni. Pepperitzi. Pappamutzzi.”

“You’re crazy.”

“Puppapazzi.”

I am sitting in traffic now. Of course. Of course I am sitting in traffic. Always in a rush and never the time to make it. I think about calling Deb, telling her I can’t make it. I can’t I can’t I can’t, I would say. I’m sorry, but I can’t. Ten years ago I wouldn’t make that decision. Hell, five years ago I wouldn’t. But that is the thing about time and experiences that changes a person. I was brave once, too, like most people, but somewhere along the way bravery fled from me like the breaking of a dam. You can try to fill it again, but it will it be as strong? I don’t know.

I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know.

Deb calls my phone.

“Are you close?”

“Almost there.”

“Traffic.”

“Always.”

“I’m near the big tree, ‘round back.”

“Okay.”

“Want me to order something for you?”

“It’s fine. Thanks.”

“Okay.”

Okay.

I pull up to the shop a few minutes later. It’s a small, unassuming coffee place on the corner near her apartment. They make pretty decent sandwiches there. This is where she tells me the first time that she is a vegetarian. “But I will eat fish, so don’t worry.” I remember thinking how fortunate I was, that at least she ate fish, that it wouldn’t be so bad, that at least we could still make sushi and grill salmon. One morning she made Lox. I had never had it before. She spent time in New York, and so she had it there, but that was despite the fact that she was already a great cook. But she spent time there and she was cultured and experienced and I had yet to know most every place on the map. This is what happens, what always happens, that I get distracted by where she’s been and where I haven’t and that I was never really good enough - the needling insecurities born from one’s preference in food.

There is a thin, cobblestone path that leads from the front of the shop to the back and an open courtyard that is wide and joined by two other shops, a small boutique and an old shoe repair store. In the far corner there is a tree that covers the courtyard with shade and depending on the time of year there are more leaves on the ground than there is shade. Oftentimes, the old man that owns the shoe repair store will sit in the shadow of the tall tree, drinking a coffee and working his way through a crossword puzzle, oblivious to the goings on of the people passing through the courtyard, all the beginnings and all the endings taking place under the covering of the tall tree just near his coffee and his crossword puzzle, but that isn’t the case today. Today, it is only Deb.

10.

I am not a tall man. I am average at best. I can fix a fence and I can change a tire, but there is nothing about me that will immediately stand out. I can wind my way around words, I think maybe that is it. I tried to grow a beard once because I thought that’s what Deb was into, trying to impress at the onset the way most people tend to do when they first get to know someone. But it was patchy and thin. It took a long time to get to a decent place, a full place, a place where I thought she’d find it the most pleasing, the most impressive.

11.

I had a decent beard once, but then I shaved it off. Sometimes, I wonder if that beard knew something I didn’t, if it had some power that I was unaware of. Or maybe it just hid certain things I didn’t know I was even hiding. I don’t know.

12.

Trim your nails at three in the morning. Tossing and turning. Nothing seems to make sense at such an hour except cutting your nails. Trim them down, long enough so that they feel normal, but still short so no dirt can come beneath them. Look at the clock, look at your face. Nine hours to go. Only so many things seem to still make sense anymore.

13.

I have been standing near my car for the last five minutes, standing and staring at the cobbleston path that leads to the back of the coffee shop, back where the tall tree hangs below the sun, where Deb is sitting and waiting. It is thirty yards away. Thirty yards is a long way and a lot can happen in just thirty yards. Records can be broken and completely different places can be seen and visited in the span of thirty yards. Hearts can be filled, they can be drained. In the span of thirty yards you can hide and watch while everything else takes place around you. You can gather your thoughts, or they can run, top-speed, at Olympic levels, in the span of thirty yards.

14.

Deb is near the tall tree, just ‘round back like she said. It is warm and so she is wearing a short sun dress with pinks and yellows and reds. Her hair is down and I cannot tell the exact moment she sees me because her eyes are guarded by her favorite pair of sunglasses. I can’t I can’t I can’t I can’t. I walk up to the table and manage a smile when she stands up to greet me. I give her a hug, putting my arms above hers because that is how she likes to be hugged. This is how I remember it. “Hey,” she says with all the impassivity one can manage to harness.

“Hello.”

15.

The first time I met Deb was at a Memorial Day get together. We drank beers and played cards and watched the game. She liked IPA’s and that was cool. She came with a friend of a friend and I did my best not to make eye-contact because that seemed like the right thing to do, the smart thing to do. The me thing to do. After the party had settled we went for whiskey and ended up at a park. I read a piece my of writing to her, trying like all get-out to seem cool and impressive and worthy of someone’s time. I tried to be a gentleman, and in the morning when we drank mimosas and drove to the beach, I felt optimistic, happy. There was a new story that was beginning and it was exciting and special and it was going to be good.

16.

I sit down at the table across from her and it is all I can do to keep my hand from shaking. My hands shake, this is what they do. When I try to hold something small, or when I am resting my arm on a table, my hand will shake. Little, tiny tremors through my palm and my fingers. My father said it was hereditary, that he has the same issue sometimes, that it’s had something to do with our nerves being off or shot or just not whole. I wonder if it will become anything more as I get older. It’s funny that way, how it is the smallest things I have the most trouble with.

17.

“How’ve you been?” she asks.

“Oh, can’t complain. Working. Writing. All that jazz,” I say.

“That’s good that you’re keeping busy.”

“It is, yeah. I don’t mind it. How are you?”

“Pretty much the same. Work, gym, sleep, repeat.”

“That’s good. I finally went to a gym.”

“You did?”

“No, I didn’t. I don’t know why I said that just now.”

“Are you going to get something?”

“Yeah, probably. I should go do that now, huh?”

“Seems like.”

“Okay. I’ll be right back.”

18.

We were supposed to write a song once, me and Deb. She had a ukelele and, just after I had met her, bought an acoustic guitar. When we began to get good and comfortable I started to play songs in front of her and sing like a fool because it was funny and she thought it was cute. One time, after work, I went to her apartment and she played me a song on the ukelele, a song I told her I loved, and sang it for me and it was very lovely. I remember thinking that this wasn’t real, that none of this was real and something happened to me on the way to her apartment because this wasn’t real. But we never got to write that song. There are lyrics in my phone, but the melody is yet to be made.

19.

It’s sixteen miles…

20.

I walk to the back door of the coffee shop. There isn’t much going on and I wish that there was. I want to hide and be gone from all of this. Or find an excuse to leave. Five minutes and already looking for an excuse to leave. I want my landlord to call, tell me there was a flood and all of my things washed out the door and into the gutter and down the sewer. It’s all gone, I want him to say. All of it, everything in your life is gone, so come quick because you still owe is for half this month’s rent.

21.

Dear Deb,

I’m sorry, but I had to leave. My landlord called and all my things have been destroyed in a terrible flood and it’s very important that I be there to take care of it. I’m sorry. I wanted to be here, but I have to be there. I need to take care of it because it is very important. It’s the most important thing. My things, instead of being here. I’m sorry, but I have to go. I think, maybe, the neighbors might try and steal my socks. I can’t let that happen. My socks are very important to me and I have to make sure nobody runs off with them. “Runs off”. Get it? Because they’re socks. This trauma is making me ridiculous. I have to go. I’m sorry.

22.

There’s this thing that happens when I get nervous or when I space out or, really, anytime I am just standing still, where I will disappear into my head and have these pretend conversations with the people I should be having real conversations with. Planned out give and takes, small scenarios of probables and improbables, words and words and words. I can control things there, most of the time, in that headspace of mine.

23.

I am watching Deb through the window, a thin shade line stopping just below her collarbone. Small breaths of wind made tiny knots in her golden strands. That was her place, her place with me, in that spot by the collarbone, where the neck and shoulder create that safe and special place. Lives could be spent forever in that special place, just above the collarbone. Falling asleep too many (not enough) times there, that is how I remember it - the special places you never forget.

24.

I could stand forever, watching the wind tie knots.

25.

The man at the counter gives me my coffee, black. I always drink my coffee black. I thought it as something tough and cool. My grandfather drank his coffee black. He lived on the Island and smoked and drank his coffee black and picked shells off the rocks at the shore and ate them just right there, just like it was nothing. I couldn’t eat shellfish that way, not yet, but I could drink my coffee black and that was good for me.

26.

Deb is stowing her phone as I come back out to join her again, but my mind doesn’t wander to the who or the what. It never really did, though. “I could have ordered that for you.”

“Yeah, but you don’t know how I take it,” I say, trying for some levity.

“It’s black, dummy.”

“It’s all milk. Milk and Splenda.”

“You’re full of shit.”

“Mmm, creamy,” I say, because I cannot go more than a minute without making a terrible joke or being anything but stupid and childish. Serious things scare me and I shake myself away from them any moment I can. Because I am a child, but I’m trying to be more.

27.

I am twenty-eight now and soon I will be twenty-nine and the great fear I have that buries all the other fears is that I will, without a doubt, manage to learn nothing from anything that has come before all of this, that I will manage a bigger hole than keeping the deep from growing – that Deb will not be the last.

28.

“So…”

“So?

“You seem happy.”

“Thanks. I am.”

“We don’t have to have this conversation.”

“You don’t want to have it?”

“You seem happy. I think I can gather enough from that.”

“Okay.”

“Thank you.”

“You seem happy, too, for what it’s worth.”

“I’m working on it.”

29.

Three months prior, on a simple day, under an average sun, me and Deb had it out. I am still trying to figure out the reasons why: that we didn’t speak, or that we just didn’t speak clearly enough, that I was selfish and a fool to think so little of things that could be big, that she thought large of everything and anything and maybe I just didn’t understand, that I didn’t know how to change a bike tire, or that it was her frustration with having to be independent that frightened me to offer help, that I should have just offered help, that I shouldn’t have ever second-guessed myself, her love, my love, all of the things that ever happened or were going to happen, or that maybe we just never really understood each other the way it seemed we did.

30.

After a few fleeting words, Deb stands up and I can vaguely see the frame of an old man shuffle down a cobble path. I stand up to meet Deb. “Take care,” she says, and I offer a hug, slighter this time and it lingers just briefly.

“Be well,” I say.

I sit back down for a moment and watch Deb walk down the same path and to her car, but my mind doesn’t wander to where she is going or to where I will head next. I sit there and watch, and remember.

31.

And so this is where I will find you, not in the moments where we’re moving apart, and not in the moments where we were quiet and fearful and at our worst, but in the memories that are concrete and in the letters we wrote and the places we’ve been, in the wooded, watery cold and in the parks and proses that came from this story, caught in the sunlight and shining like two, little moons - those special places we occupied the best.